death......really needed a vacation. they needed....an assistant.

You can still find love at 35, 50, 75, and beyond.

The RPC tends to neglect muses over 35 and resources for more mature FCs.

Life doesn’t end after your 20s. It’s not too late to find love.

ASHLEY ZUKERMAN as NATE SOFRELLI SUCCESSION (1.09) — “Pre-Nuptial”

Bruce is a traitor. That much is certain. Arms crossed in front of his chest in a less than subtle self-soothing gesture, Dick's gaze is avoidant of hers as she questions him. She means well but the inquiry for context has the pain (and the embarrassment) flairing up all over again.

Hmm. Tamsin might not have raised any children, but she was familiar enough with how teenagers acted from her time as the Director of Washington DC's busiest homeless shelter. How many times had unhoused teens come into the shelter? How many times had she had long discussions with them, assisted them however she could. She can practically see the embarrassment radiating off the young boy.

ASHLEY ZUKERMAN as NATE SOFRELLI SUCCESSION (2.02) — “Vaulter”

Just a moment ago, Anya had been so scared. Not of Tamsin herself — she truly knows she would never hurt her — but of the way she would feel when she heard what Anya had done. Tamsin had been more gracious and forgiving than anyone who had come before her but if there was one thing life had already taught this little girl, it was that there was something wrong with her, something bad, and eventually people would tire of it. And when they did, terrible things would happen. People like her father would hurt her, people like her mother would cry, and all of them would eventually do what every parent had had before — they would give up on her. There was a part of her half-convinced and terrified that this was going to be the moment Tamsin followed suit, and it warred in equal parts with the part of her that believed all of her foster mother’s claims.

But now….

Now, Anya is staring at that paper through amber eyes wide and eager, and she isn’t even thinking about all of that anymore. She isn’t thinking of Tyler or what she had done, just about this paper and Tamsin’s words. Adoption. Forever.

Tamsin will love her forever.

“I can be your real baby,” she echoes in a whisper as she reaches out, pulling the paper closer to her as if she can read it. When Anya’s eyes part from it to meet Tamsin’s again, they are swimming in tears once more though these fall for an entirely different reason.

Reaching over, she wipes underneath Anya's eye with a scarred hand.

It was rare that Tamsin wore her gloves around her children. Truthfully, she hadn't quite felt the need to wear them in private anymore. Letting out a small sigh, she leans over to kiss the top of her daughter's head.

"You will be my daughter, legally, yes Anya. No one will ever be able to take you away from me ever again. Not your father and no one else. You will be Anya Johnson officially." If Anya wanted to keep her father's last name, she could, but Tamsin would let her make that decision.

"I'll tell you a secret." Biscuit slowly approaches, curling up in front of Anya, her head laying on the child's lap as a measure of comfort. She was more in-tune with Tamsin, but she could recognize the anxiety in Anya.

( @frstwomn )

Celeste smiles as her hands grasp the lapels of Tamsin’s suit, pulling her closer to press a quick kiss to her lips.

She lets out a squeak as she's pulled into a kiss, a grin taking over her face as she pulls away.

Anya might be young, might be naive, but she processes an ability far beyond her years when it comes to recognizing the emotions of another. It comes from a life spent always on edge, always looking out for the first signs of her father’s anger, her mother’s fear a warning sign in itself. She so rarely witnesses either anymore but she has sensed fear in Tamsin since they’d been rushed out of their home. The change in itself scares the young girl, and Tamsin’s thinly veiled emotion only makes that feeling worse, but the sight of another’s fear has always made her stronger.

Of course, she is still five and her ability to hide her own emotions is extremely limited, especially when the panic she is prone to slips in, but right now…she’s okay. And she remains singularly focused on making sure Tamsin is okay too.

He was lucky she would never meet him. Leaning over, she presses her face into her daughter's hair, letting out a shaky breath as she kisses her head.

Sigrid nods when the President says her father is a very smart man: he is. Sigrid's known it her whole life, and she appreciates when other people recognize it, too -- especially people who he's been working with and will continue working with for the foreseeable future, and especially in times like these.

"You should eat something." It's not a demand, but it isn't quite as tentative as a question, either. It's the same tone she'd given her father when she'd told him the same thing earlier (and the same tone her father had given her when telling her the exact same thing). "Here..." Using the hand not holding the to-go cup of hot tea, Sigrid reaches into her shoulder bag to fish out a muffin encased in a makeshift 'bag' of folded parchment paper, evidence that the muffin was homemade.

She really shouldn't be eating or drinking anything that hasn't been thoroughly vetted by the Secret Service. But they had seen Sigrid enter with the tea and her backpack (surely checking the backpack for weapons) and they had let her through. Besides, she knew Sigrid's father, she TRUSTED him, and she knew Sigrid wouldn't poison her. There were other ways to poison her if she was going to be poisoned.

And Sigrid was right that Tamsin hadn't eaten yet. It had only been a few hours since the attack and she had been far too busy ever since to worry about putting food into her stomach (quite a dangerous thing when she took medication that required food). Slowly, gloved hands reach out to grab the muffin from Sigrid's grasp, taking a bite from it.

Crumbs fall onto her blazer as she lets out a small snort, wiping at her mouth "I appreciate the food." It's almost hesitant, her response. She straightens up from her slumped position.

being a secret service agent for the president isn't the easiest job . . . she never expected it to be. it shouldn't make her emotional. she shouldn't get too close. she shouldn't lean her head over and close her eyes, her chest aching as she attempts to think of what to say.

jennifer has always been tied into her emotions and thus, her actions followed. and despite trying so hard not to, she has made so many decisions in her line of work that should've gotten her fired. acting upon emotions...but her boss or partner already seemed to cover for her.

but now it is just her and the woman who has seeped under her skin. she reaches up and brushes her fingers through her hair. her voice soft, . . .

Fingers in her hair soothe her frayed nerves. She's so TIRED, so exhausted, but she can't show the exhaustion outside of small moments in private. How would the American people handle knowing how tired and frayed she was?

The attack had only been a few months prior, but they weren't any closer to finding out the culprit and frankly, it was weighing heavily on her. She saw President King dropping to the floor, she saw the screen flickering in her nightmares.

⁀ ✉︎ ⸜     𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙 .ᐟ     (     @frstwomn     )  | | |   ⤷   meme   :    receiver  gets  a  cryptic  text  from  sender  asking  to  meet  in  person.

𝐡𝐞  𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝  𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧  the  café  door,  already  mumbling  to  himself.  ❝  it’s  definitely  bad.  it’s  always  bad  when  they  say  ‘come  alone.’  ❞  he  spotted  the  table  immediately  —  two  secret  service  agents.  flynn  blinked.  ❝  oh.  oh  no.  you’re,  uh,  you’re  the  president.  ❞  flynn  adjusted  his  tie  nervously.  the  president.  of  the  united  states.  fantastic.  totally  normal  day  for  him.  he's  having  coffee  with  the  leader  of  the  free  world.  he  sat  down  slowly,  eyes  darting  to  the  service  agents.  ❝  if  this  has  anything  to  do  with  prague  i  swear  that  was  not  my  fault.  ❞

when  a  story  brings  itself  to  her,   though   .   .   .   when  she's  in  here  instead  of  out  there,   not  having  to  fight  among  the  others  for  second-rate  pickings,   it's  gotten  so  easy  to  convince  herself  there's  a  reason  she's  made  it  so  much  further.   something  beyond  being  a  conventionally  attractive  woman,   anyway.   she'd  be  stupid  not  to  know  that's  part  of  it,   and  she's  not  stupid.   oh,   but  she's  well  aware  that  looks  can  only  take  a  person  so  far  and  she's  got  that  special  something.   that  edge  that  lifts  her  above  the  others  so  effortlessly     (   that's  a  lie,   there's  been  effort   .   .   .   there's  been  a  shit  load  of  effort  and  she's  convinced  she's  paid  for  this  job  time  and  again  with  her  blood,   sweat,   and  tears   ). 

Needless to say, she's not very fond of the media. But Alex is different. Or at the very least, she seems to be different. Tamsin hopes she's not making a mistake here, hopes that Alex is truly different than other journalists. For a moment, she takes in a deep breath before letting out a shaky exhale.

"Approximately thirty-six hours ago, Secret Service apprehended Jebediah Hunt, my ex-Vice President for attempted murder on the President of the United States." Sometimes, it was easier to distance herself from the truth, to use titles instead of admitting just how much it hurt. When this interview was over, she could cry in the safety of a dressing room. Right now, she needed to stay strong.